


The Deadly Paradox

by Katie (katieandsav)



Category: Doctor Who, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Superwholock - Fandom, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: AU, Character Death, Hunger Games, Superwholock, katie's shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katieandsav/pseuds/Katie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester didn't care about the Hunger Games until the his younger brother was drawn to compete; now, after volunteering in Sam's place, he must try to fulfill his promise to return from the deadly Games—even if it means he loses his humanity in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Sam’s perched in a tree, shivering and hugging himself. His mop of hair is greasy, falling in muddied locks across his face. He leans back and gazes up at the dark sky, the long cut on his cheek coming into view—it’s deep, oozing pus and blood. He wipes at it with the back of his hand._

_After a moment of sitting still, Sam shifts to look straight into the camera; the lens warps his face._

_“Dean,” he whispers, “if I don’t come home, you gotta promise me you’ll take care of Dad, okay? Even if something happens to me, you hafta be stro—”_

_There’s a rustle in the leaves behind him. Sam whips around with a cry, but it’s cut off as the machete buries itself so deep in his chest that the glinting metal is visible tearing through the skin between his shoulder blades. The holder of the weapon twists the machete, then yanks it out of Sam’s small form. Sam falls out the tree; there’s a dull thud as his body hits the forest floor._

_A black-haired boy of around fifteen leans down to peer into the camera, and, after flashing a maniacal grin, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light, turns and disappears back into the leaves._

_The cannon sounds._

Dean sat bolt upright with a gasp and looked around the room, wide-eyed. He was met with the same sight as always: dirty, cracked walls; low ceiling. Sam was curled up against Dean, snoring softly.

He exhaled shakily as he slowly relaxed back into the pillows. It was just a nightmare. Sam was still alive. Then, he remembered what today was.

Dean gave him a gentle nudge, and the boy mumbled a sleepy protestation.

“Time to get up, Sammy,” Dean murmured. “We gotta get ready for the Reaping.”


	2. The Reaping

Dean’s mouth was dry and his throat was sore. Of course, that was nothing new; the permanent coal dust in the air meant that everyone in District 12 was forever on the brink of coughing. But today, the coal dust wasn’t only to blame.   
The day itself was dry, too—heavy clouds of smoke and dust hung low over the large white building that was the Hall of Justice, trapping all the heat in. Any light that filtered through just burnt Dean’s neck, making his already foul mood even worse. Reaping days were never something he looked forward to. Especially when Sam was at risk of having his name drawn. 

Just the thought about of his younger brother made Dean’s muscles stiffen, as if his body was preparing to leap into action to save Sam if need be, and when he felt the bump on his shoulder, he whirled around and glared down the pasty-skinned boy that had touched him. 

“Watch your step,” Dean snapped. 

Ash raised his eyebrows at Dean and whacked his shoulder. “Watch your attitude,” he retorted as he stepped into the spot beside the Winchester. “Nervous?” 

Dean grunted out an indifferent reply, then, after a moment, admitted, “Worried ’bout Sam. His name’s in there twice this year.” 

“And yours is in there six times, like mine. Have either of us been drawn yet? Nope.” Ash absently reached up to pat his hair down. The mullet that he insisted on keeping had been greased into some prissy-ass style with what looked like leftover fat from his last meal. 

Dean allowed a smirk as he reached over and scraped his fingers through Ash’s hair. “Who did this then? Ellen?” 

“Jo,” Ash told him, swatting his hand away. “She apparently couldn’t resist the allure of—” 

A cough cut Ash off. Both boys turned forward again and levelled their gazes on the woman standing onstage. 

She was tall and slim, with her dark hair done up in an extravagant bun. Irene Adler, her name was, was the escort for District 12; some said she was attractive but, quite frankly, she repulsed Dean with her bright red lipstick and flashy outfits. 

Today, the outfit she’d picked consisted of something that Dean guessed was supposed to be a dress, but that term was generous—thin ropes of material were woven together in a fishnet pattern, beneath which was a figure-hugging, goldenly opaque slip. Without the slip, Dean knew, every aspect of Irene’s bony figure would’ve been bared for all the world to see. (Which had been done before—when Dean was fourteen, Irene had appeared onstage in nothing but thigh-high leather boots. He was grateful that that wasn’t the case this year.)   
She gazed sultrily out at the crowd from beneath her long, fake eyelashes, the jewels on the tips glittering beneath the artificial light being projected onto her. Then, without saying a word, she shifted her gaze to the screen beside the stage and stepped back once more as the video started to play. 

Dean lost interest in the film; his mind went back to Sam. Two slips of paper with the thirteen-year-old’s name on them were in that bowl. Two wasn’t a big number normally, but compared to the option of zero, it was infinitesimally huge.   
Dean studied the glass orb, as if he could figure out which pieces of paper had his brother’s name on them. 

He was snapped out of his daze when Irene stepped forward again and curled her long fingers around the microphone’s pole. “Hello, all,” she purred into the microphone, flashing a bright smile. Dean curled his lip. Her feminine voice, although smooth, grated on his nerves. That was the voice that announced which children would be sent to their deaths each year. “As you know, each year, two lucky tributes are selected to compete in the annual Hunger Games—one boy, one girl. As always, ladies first.” Irene smirked at the audience, then reached a hand into the girls’ bowl and drew a slip of paper. Slowly, almost tantalizingly, she unfolded the paper and read the name, then lifted her pale grey eyes and announced, “The female tribute this year is Joanna Harvelle.” 

Dean drew a sharp breath. Jo Harvelle: Ash’s sister. He felt Ash’s entire body go stiff beside him. 

As the blonde girl climbed up onto the stage, her posture defiant and her jaw set, Dean shot Ash a condoling look. Ash didn’t seem to notice; his gaze was fixed on his sister. 

Jo finally came to a halt beside Adler and stood there, rigid, as she glared out at the audience. 

“Mm,” Irene sighed with a little smile as she looked Jo up and down. “And now, the boys.” Still not tearing her gaze from Jo, she dipped her hand into the other bowl and retrieved a piece of paper. After a quick glance at the name, she said,

“Sam Winchester,” then gave Jo another onceover, apparently drinking in every one of the girl’s features. 

At first, the name didn’t register. It was just the name of some kid who was going to die. 

And then, the realisation that he knew the small boy that was climbing up onstage, that there were people patting Dean’s shoulder and offering mumbled condolences to him hit him like a brick wall. 

Before Dean knew what he was doing, he was shouting “Sam!” and shoving people out the way to get to his brother. Several Peacekeepers darted forward, trying to stop him, but he managed to pull free. “I—I volunteer!” he screamed. “I volunteer! Just—Just let him go!  _I volunteer_!” 

Dean felt every eye on him as he pushed through to the front of the crowd and jogged up on stage, stepping between Irene and Sam. A small hand grasped at his arm. 

“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam asked. His face was pale and his eyes were the size of saucers. 

“Go back to your friends,” Dean told him softly. “I’ll see you just now.” When Sam didn’t move, Dean gave him a light nudge. 

“I…” Sam said, stumbling back. He blinked owlishly up at Dean, then slowly turned and trudged off the stage. 

Dean turned back to Irene, who was regarding him, her expression mild.   
“I volunteer,” Dean repeated once more. This time, it was quiet: a secret shared between him and the woman. 

“I think we all know that by now,” Irene replied. She smiled, then grabbed Dean’s arm and pulled him into place beside Jo, slapping his rear just before she dropped her hand to her side again. 

Hundreds of pairs of shocked eyes watched Dean, and he met their stares hostilely, anger simmering in his veins. He clenched his jaw and stood up straighter, refusing to be beaten down by the gawking. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Irene announced, “I give you the tributes of this year’s Hunger Games.” 

There absolute silence as Dean turned to Jo and held out his hand. She took it and gave a firm shake, her grip surprisingly strong for someone of her size.   
“Nice shake,” he whispered to her. 

There was the slightest upturning of the corners of Jo’s mouth. “My dad always said weak handshakes are for pus—” She was cut off when Irene clamped her hands down on their shoulders and pushed them toward the stairs leading into the Hall of Justice. 

“Time to go, sweetcheeks,” Irene smirked, then waved to the crowd, turned and strode off the stage.


	3. Goodbyes and Hellos

After the anthem had finished playing, Dean was ushered to a room inside the Justice Building by a Peacekeeper. He didn’t have time to take in his surrounding before Sam was in the room, hugging Dean tightly.

“Don’t go,” Sam mumbled into Dean’s shirt, his eyes squeezed shut. “You can’t go.”

Dean drew a breath, then knelt down so he was at eye-level with his younger brother. “Listen, Sammy, while I’m gone, you gotta batten down the hatches. Take care of Dad and all. Just ’til I get back.”

Sam nodded, rubbing his eyes. “You are coming back, right? You’re going to win?”

“’Course I am. I’m gonna rip those sons of bitches’ throats out and be back before you know it.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Now, Sammy—”

There was a cough at the door. “Your time’s almost up,” the Peacekeeper announced.

Dean looked back at Sam and pulled him into a hug. “See ya soon, you li’l twerp.”

“I’m gonna miss you, Dean,” Sam said, his voice wobbling.

“Time,” the Peacekeeper said, grabbing the back of Sam’s shirt and pulling him away from Dean.”

“And do your homework!” Dean called after him. He scrubbed a hand over his face once Sam was out of sight, exhaling shakily.

“Dean, you gotta protect her,” someone said.

Dean opened his eyes to see Ash standing, pale, above him.

“I’ll take care of Jo,” he assured his friend.

“Seriously,” Ash persisted. “Don’t let some Career get her. She’s—She’s a good kid, Dean. She has potential. Jo—she doesn’t deserve to be offed by some District One brat without ever having had a shot at li—”

“Ash,” Dean interrupted, standing up. “It’s fine. I’ll keep an eye on her—I’ll take care of her as if she was my own sister.”

Some of the panic seemed to melt away as Ash nodded slowly. He strode over to Dean and pulled him into a brief embrace. “Good luck, man.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. He knew Ash didn’t mean the well-wishes—if Dean came home, it meant Jo was dead. It was either him or her. “You, uh—You watch out for Ellen. And just… make sure Sam doesn’t do anything stupid, will ya?”

“Sure thing, bro.” Ash ran his fingers through his hair, nodding once more, awkwardly, before walking out.

Dean turned to look out the window. “Is that it?” he asked the Peacekeeper.

“You aren’t going to say goodbye to your old man?” a voice that definitely wasn’t the Peacekeeper’s replied.

Dean whirled around, staring at his father in vague shock. He’d come to say goodbye? “Dad,” Dean said.

John leaned against the doorway. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

“I… I will. Just—Dad? Take care of Sam. You can’t skip work while I’m gone. Sam isn’t tough enough to work in the mines like I can.”

John nodded, and, as the light caught his eyes, Dean saw how bloodshot they were. He felt nervous for the first time since he’d volunteered in that moment—not about going into the Games, but about leaving Sam alone with their father. “And you have to stop drinking.”

“Something flashed across John’s face—anger. In a second, it was gone. “I will,” he said shortly. And with that, he straightened up and left.

The Peacekeeper stepped forward. “Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ten minutes later, Dean had boarded the train and the tube-like machine had been sealed shut. He sat stiffly on one of the long, leather couches beneath the windows lining the interior of the train, gazing out at his home in an attempt to soak up as much of the scenery as he could.

“So,” someone said as they sat beside Dean. He caught a glimpse of blonde hair out the corner of his eye—Jo. “Here we are. Feels kinda surreal, huh? Real end-of-days-ish.”

“Feels like what it is: we’re being carted away from District Twelve so we can dance like a bunch of murderous monkeys to entertain those Capitol bastards.”

Any semblance of lightheartedness that had been in Jo’s tone faded. “Well, if you’re going to look at it that way, then I guess we can do the whole pessimistic spiel.”

Dean finally shifted his gaze to her to see her rich brown eyes were now dark. “What other way is there to look at it?”

“We’re going to the Capitol, Dean. Even if we get killed the moment we set foot in the arena, ’least we’ll’ve lived in the lap of luxury for a while.”

“Pigs being pampered for the slaughterhouse,” Dean snorted. “Yeah, that’s totally fun.”

“Okay, look, smartass. I’m trying to make conversation with my new death-buddy, and god knows how hard that is to do when you’re snarking to the high heavens. So how’s about you get your head outta your ass for a nanosecond and at least try to be friendly.”

Despite himself, Dean smirked. “Your brother told me to look out for you in the arena.”

“What the—Chrissakes. We’re both seventeen, so don’t you dare think I need a babysitter. Goddamn that Ash. Goddamn him to hell. I’m not five.”

“Thing is, I don’t think I’m going to stick around with you just ’cos your brother asked me to. You’re smart, from what I’ve seen. I could use an ally. Better to start on these things sooner rather than later.”

Jo paused in her irritable mutterings about Ash and gave Dean a onceover. “You look like you could hold yourself in a fight.”

“Whacking a pick into coal all day gives you guns, don’t it.”

“’Parently. Okay, fine. I’ll take you up on that offer.” Jo stuck her hand out. “Allies.”

Dean took it and gave it a firm shake. “Allies.”

“Nice shake,” Jo said, a sly little smile ghosting across her lips.

“Well,” Dean replied, recalling what she’d said to him onstage, “weak handshakes are for pus—”

“Oh, ain’t that sweet,” a gruff voice interjected. “You two are having a moment.”

Both teens turned their heads to see a chubby, bearded man sporting a dirty baseball cap on his head regarding them.

“Are you our mentor?” Jo asked after a moment.

“Name’s Bobby Singer,” the man said, taking a swig from his beer before dropping the empty bottle on the table. “I’ll be the one trying to save your bacon while you’re in the arena.”


	4. The Drunk and the Dominatrix

Bobby pulled up a chair and sat in it, looking over the two. “Hm,” he said.

“ _Hm_?” Jo prompted.

“You two,” the man started slowly, “look like you might be worth my time.”

Dean rolled his eyes and looked out the window again as they started to pull out the station. “Gee, thanks.”

“That’s a compliment. I ain’t gonna spend my time sugarcoating my words to some kids who’ll be murdered before they can blink—you two, though. You could make it.”

“So how do we survive?” Jo asked, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

“You listen to me and Irene,” Bobby said. “What we say can and most likely will save your lives. Treat our words like holy scripture.”

Dean let out a quiet snort.

Jo shot him a look, then turned back to Bobby. “Where’s Irene?”

“Are my ears ringing?” Irene asked as she strode into the room and perched on the table, crossing one leg over the other. She now wore a dark green dress whose neckline reached her stomach and whose hem barely brushed her thighs. Her hair fell in loose, wavy locks to her shoulders. “I like these ones,” she murmured to Bobby.

“ _These ones_ have ears,” Dean snapped as he tore his gaze from the window, glaring at Irene.

“Oh, you’re fierce,” she said, getting to her feet and crossing over to him. She tipped Dean’s chin up, her long, painted nail pressing into his skin. “I like them fierce.” A smirk crossed her lips.

Dean whacked her hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he said.

She tilted her head to the side. “I don’t think I caught your name, did I?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Well, Dean,” Irene said softly, trailing her finger down his chest. “I’m a goddess, as far as you’re concerned. Which means you’ll respect me, because otherwise you’ll face my… divine wrath.” She let out a breath of laughter. “And you can start by calling me Ms Adler. Understand, Mr Winchester?”

Dean didn’t respond, but Adler seemed to take that as a yes.

“Very good. And my, aren’t you a pretty one. Your features are almost too delicate for these Games, aren’t they?” Irene took Dean’s face in her hand, moving his head so she could examine him. Her nails pressed into his cheeks. She glanced at Jo. “Mm, definite sex appeal in both of them. I think we’ve found our angle, Bobby.”

“What—We can’t have them both have the same angle!” Bobby protested, but when looked over her shoulder at him, he went quiet. “Okay, fine. But if that idea bombs, it’s your fault.”

“You mean,” Dean interrupted, “if one or both of us die because  _Ms Adler's_  plan had a bit of a fault, she just has to accept that she made an  _oopsie_?”

“Listen here, boy,” Bobby growled, “Irene here's been training kids longer than you've known how to make those smartass comments.”

“And how successful has she been, exactly?” Dean snapped.

Jo turned on him. “Dean! Get your head out your ass, will you? They're trying to help us.”

“Help us try survive a goddamn Game that's designed so her kind—” He shot Irene another scathing look, “can enjoy themselves watching kids being murdered? Wow, thanks, Irene! I didn't realise how lucky I was!” Dean got to his feet and stormed for the door, but Irene caught his arm and yanked him back to face her, slapping him across the face with such force that he was knocked off his feet.

She placed her foot on his chest, her stiletto heel preventing him from getting up, and slipped a riding crop out the leg of her boot. “Lesson one,” Irene said coolly, tapping Dean's cheek with the crop, “never underestimate your opponent. They may seem more disadvantaged in every way possible—shorter, scrawnier, _female_ —but you can never predict the tricks they have up their sleeves.” She slapped Dean's cheek with the riding crop hard enough to leave it smarting, and removed her foot from his chest.

Dean got to his feet immediately, his ego bruised. He’d been taken out by a woman—a woman that was _half his size_.

Irene glanced at him. “I can practically _see_ the sexism running through your head. News flash, Mr Winchester—girls can fight, too. Now, didn’t you have some dramatic storming off to do?”

Dean clenched his jaw and walked out. As he was just about to leave the room, he felt something slap his ass—and realised very quickly that it was none other than Irene’s riding crop.

With a string of muttered curses, he found his way to his assigned bedroom and slammed the door shut behind himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean lay on his bed, looking up at the ceiling and absently tossing and catching an apple from the fruit bowl on the coffee table. The bed was almost unbelievably comfortable—Dean was used to the lumpy, thin mattress he shared with Sam.

There was a knock on the door, and someone walked inside.

“What?” Dean asked flatly, not looking to see who it was.

“Done having a temper tantrum, princess?” asked Bobby’s voice.

Dean shut his eyes. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. “No, in fact, so lea—”

“Too bad.” A weight dropped down on the edge of Dean’s bed; he looked up to see that Bobby had sat down.

“Listen, kid,” Bobby said. “I know you don’t want to be here. None of us do.”

“Irene sure as hell seems to be enjoying herself.”

“That’s her _job_ , dumbass. Point is, you can’t throw your toys every time someone says something you don’t like. I’ve known you twenty minutes and you’ve already stormed out the room.”

Dean sat up. “Why do they force us to do this? What sadistic bastards came up with these Games?”

“President Crowley and his lackeys, genius. You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Bobby said, “because evidently you don’t pay attention in school.”

Dean knew it was meant as a playful jibe, but he couldn’t stop himself from mumbling, “I don’t go to school. I work in the mines.”

“Ain’t you a little young to be working in the mines? You’re what—seventeen?”

Dean shrugged. “I also got a dad who’s drunk three-quarters of the time and a kid brother to take care of.”

“That who you volunteered for?”

“Yeah. Name’s Sam. He’s smart. Real smart.”

“And you’re not?” Bobby asked quietly.

“Everyone knows I’m a grunt.”

“Then prove ’em wrong.”

“By dying in the Games?”

Bobby leaned back a little and studied Dean. “No. By winning.”


End file.
